“Your wife?” Lian combed through Ling’s cluttered memories, like sifting shells after a storm, hoping a clue would gleam.
…
Boom—lightning split across Lian’s brow like a white blade, and a barely-on-model figure lurched up from the fogged archive.
“Could it be… could it be Tian-ge!”
“Tian-ge?”
He had no idea who she meant, but Mr. Qin’s cat-nerved gut twitched—this smelled like a bad answer.
To keep Lian’s thoughts from sliding downhill, Mr. Qin beckoned toward the back of the room, his hand carving the air like a fan. A young girl stepped out, gold hair flowing like wheat, two long red ribbons standing upright like twin flags, an angelic face that dragged the gaze like the tide.
Mr. Qin drew the girl to his side and spoke, his voice steady as a bell.
“My lords, this is my wife, named Harifa Shuang. She used to call herself Shuang-ge, bold as mountain wind, all boyish swagger. Shame to say, that’s the temperament that hooked me. Sadly, for ten years, she fought a monster called the Anti-air Princess, and their battles were moving as winter rain. In the end, for various reasons, a potted plant laid a curse on her; from that moment her voice was taken. So she’s mute now, and I apologize that she can’t offer you a proper salute.”
Lian, carrying Ling’s memories, went blank with shock, tongue tied like a kite string—this development was twisted, and, honestly, a bit badass.
Ling was still stunned, but Mr. Qin kept speaking, his words like stones placed in a path.
“We understand your purpose this time. We’ve prepared a weapon meant to behead the foe across from us, forged by my wife and me together.”
A bespoke DIO-killer? Lian’s brow lifted like a reed—what is this, a road roller?
“Uh… Mr. Qin, why do we need a special weapon? Can’t we just rush him head-on?”
Mr. Qin shook his head, a willow refusing the wind; to him, that was a death run.
“He’s undead. His regeneration will exceed your imagination, like weeds after rain. He only appears at night, and our night work slows, our steps sink like stones. We sacrificed half our comrades to win a vial of his blood. Then we forged the weapon.”
A chill pricked Lian’s heart like frost on a window. Aer’s earlier warning wasn’t a joke tossed in the wind. For her own skin, and for the villagers’ spent lives, she had to carry that blade.
Resolve settled like ink; Lian nodded to Mr. Qin.
“Then… please follow my wife. I’ll prep and join you soon.”
The blonde moved the instant he finished, quick as a swallow in dusk, and everyone followed like leaves pulled by a stream.
…girl’s lifespan ticking down…
Led by the girl, they entered a dark room where the air hung heavy like damp canvas. In the center sat a big black box, and Harifa waited beside it, quiet as snow—sorry, it’s not quiet; she simply can’t speak.
The atmosphere pinched into awkward silence for a rare minute, but Mr. Qin arrived soon, a strange-shaped key gleaming in his hand like a thorn.
“My lords, allow me to open this box for you; inside waits the weapon prepared for you.”
He slid the key into the black box. Ka-chunk—gears ground like old bones, and the top peeled open layer by layer like lotus petals.
Clack—a sealed compartment snapped, and black mist slithered out, cold as river fog, setting a horror-chill in the room.
But Mr. Qin, a bull under thunder, didn’t flinch. He reached into the box and drew out a black longsword, holding it up so the gleam ran like water along its edge.
“Everyone, this is the weapon I prepared for you. My wife and I named it—the Darkness Sword!”
The last three words hit their ears like radio static; no one could catch the true name, as if the wind swallowed it.
“Dark what?”
“Darkness Sword.”
“What sword?”
“Darkness Sword.”
“Dark… what?”
“Darkness Sword.”
It went on like a stuck drum for five whole minutes, and if not for everyone’s decent deductive sense, the loop would’ve kept clattering.
Qin wiped his forehead, sweat beading like dew, relieved that the name finally landed.
“Sorry, my lords, I don’t know why the name refuses to be heard. But that’s not the point. The point is, this sword has been reinforced to +21. Its power needs no praise—your hands will feel it. Why not higher? The smiths say twenty-one is the limit of iron and fate. Anything above twenty-one and below twenty-three only happens in dreams.”
Lian took the Darkness Sword +21, giving it a casual shake. It felt light as a feather, almost suspicious, like a blade made of breath. But she didn’t doubt; when has your ge-ge ever lied to you?
She knew the rhythm of the world—weapon secured means next step is the boss.
“Aer, let’s go. Time to hunt.”
She laced her fingers with Aer’s and pulled her toward the door, the Darkness Sword riding her back like a moonlit plank. A meter-long blade on a loli’s shoulders was mismatched as a crane on a boat… and yet, it looked kind of cool.
Mr. Qin saw them about to leave and raised a hand to wave, but his mind sparked like a struck wire. A memory surged like a tide, and he rushed to halt their steps.
“Wait! I’ve got more to say!”
Lian stopped at the shout and turned back, seeing Mr. Qin’s face written over with urgency like bold strokes of ink.
“What is it? What else?”
Mr. Qin locked eyes with Lian, his pupils solemn as a storm pool.
“Remember, only a storm can fell a great tree!”
At those words, Lian’s mouth curved into a small smile, a crescent under clouds. She turned away, and somehow a sunset bloomed at noon, amber light washing over her, making her small frame stand tall as a mountain shadow.
She kept walking, leaving one crisp line drifting in the air like a flying leaf.
“FNNDP!”
